


I Know What It's Like (To Be In Chains)

by ladyblahblah



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Light Bondage, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, PWP, discussion of mating, made-up werewolf headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-18
Updated: 2012-07-18
Packaged: 2017-11-10 05:24:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/462651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyblahblah/pseuds/ladyblahblah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fill: <em>Stiles experiments with new ways to captivate Scott on full moon with himself. His father has a night shift till next day. And of course stiles being stiles, he managed to tie himself to the heater without his cellphone or anything close to him. After awhile he starts to scream and our beloved sourwolf hears it and wants to help stiles. But maybe not with loosing the chains but with the other "unspoken" topic of stiles being a virgin, because stiles being in that position no alpha could resist. </em></p>
            </blockquote>





	I Know What It's Like (To Be In Chains)

**Author's Note:**

> Another fill for my "give me Sterek PWP prompts" plea. Stiles is entirely too much fun to write, I'll tell you what. Title is from a Depeche Mode song. I regret nothing.

 

 

“ _Hello?_ ” Stiles's voice is starting to go hoarse, and he lets his head fall back to thump against the wall. “Anyone?” he tries again after a moment, because anyone who knows him will tell you that Stiles Stilinski can't keep his mouth shut to save his life, and clearly that's not going to change when he's managed to sort of accidentally chain himself to the radiator. A little.

 

“ _HELLO_?” He doesn't know why he's still bothering, really. He's been shouting for help for over an hour, and there hasn't been so much as a knock on the door. This is what he gets for trying to do something nice. Well. Sort of. “Hello, I'm in _distress_ here, could someone please just _help_?”

 

His phone is across the room, not just on but  _behind_ his desk, where it's possible it might have fallen after an ill-advised pillow-based retrieval technique. Which means he can't call Scott to come and help him; not that Scott would probably answer his phone, but he  _might_ , and he  _should_ , since it's his fault Stiles is even in this situation, in a way. He was the one freaking out about the full moon this month, wasn't he? And he was the one begging Stiles to help him come up with a way to keep him from hurting anyone, right? And since Stiles is the  _best friend ever_ , he's the one who came up with the idea for a remote-activated cuff woven through with mountain ash to keep him chained to Stiles's radiator should it become absolutely necessary.

 

And, since Stiles is  _Stiles_ , he's also the one who managed to accidentally spring the mechanism while he was testing it and wind up shackled there himself. His dad is working an overnight shift, his phone is irretrievable, and his best friend is god-only-knows-where but probably snuggled up with Allison in the last bit of time before the moon rises and not thinking about Stiles at all. Stiles is going to have to wait for his dad to get home in the morning and let him loose, and won't  _that_ just be a lovely, not-at-all-awkward conversation for them to have?

 

He is so phenomenally, monumentally screwed.

 

“HELLO!” he shouts again, on the verge of panicking now. For a moment he considers shouting _fire_ , but aren't you not supposed to do that? Or does that only apply to crowded theaters? Screw it, he's trying anyway, he decides, and is opening his mouth to draw in air for a shout when the scraping sound of his window opening has him stopping with his jaw still hanging open.

 

Probably a good thing he didn't yell  _fire_ after all, a quiet voice in his head is saying as he watches long legs slide in through the open space. Derek probably wouldn't have appreciated it. Definitely for the best. So now instead of having to worry about being trapped in a room with an incredibly brassed-off werewolf, all he has to deal with is the look on Derek's face like Stiles is the most infuriatingly baffling thing he's ever seen.

 

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks shortly, and Stiles has to laugh, letting his head thump against the wall again.

 

“Oh, you know. Just hanging out.”

 

“Why are you sitting—”

 

“Because I'm _locked up_ , dumbass!” Stiles shouts, jerking his arm in the cuff so that it clanks noisily against the heater. Derek's eyes flash red, and Stiles swallows heavily, belatedly realizing that baiting an alpha werewolf half an hour before the full moon might not be the very best idea he's ever had.

 

“ _Why_ are you locked up?” Derek growls, his body going tense and still.

 

“I dunno, just seemed like a way to pass the time, you know kids today and our wacky ways. It was an _accident_ , what do you think?”

 

Stiles is cursing the fact that he really  _can't_ keep his mouth shut to save his life, when Derek abruptly relaxes.

 

“You mean you did this to yourself?”

 

“Well, yeah. I'm not really into kinky bondage games.” He nearly bites his tongue in half as soon as the words are out of his mouth, because that's the last thing he needs to be thinking about with Derek Hale looming over him looking like—like _that_. “Besides. Uh. There's no one else here. Now would you give me a hand so I don't have to explain to my dad why his seventeen-year-old son is chained to a radiator? Please?”

 

Derek rolls his eyes, but he crouches down and reaches for the cuff nonetheless. His fingers are less than an inch away when he freezes, and his gaze flickers up to Stiles's.

 

“You used mountain ash.”

 

“Um. Yeah.”

 

“This was for Scott.”

  
Stiles scratches at his nose with his free hand. “Sort of?”

 

“You were going to chain him up,” Derek says, a low growl rumbling under his words, “in your _bedroom_.”

 

“Only if it became necessary! He's been freaking out about it lately, I don't know why, except he's _Scott_ , and Scott's sort of weird, so I set this up.” Stiles can't seem to catch his breath, possibly because he couldn't stop talking with an actual gun to his head right now, like his words are a talisman protecting him from the visibly furious werewolf _right in front of him_. “And then I accidentally got stuck in it instead, heh, oops? So if you could just—”

 

“Stiles,” Derek grinds out. “You need to calm. _Down_.”

 

“What do you mean, calm down?” Stiles lets out a nervous laugh and tries not to wince at the sound of it. “I'm totally calm.”

 

“You're afraid of me. You need to pull it together.”

 

“I'm not _afraid_ of you,” Stiles protests. “It's just that you're a werewolf and I'm, you know.” He rattles the short chain again for emphasis. “Tied up and made of meat.”

 

“I'm not going to eat you, Stiles,” Derek says, rolling his eyes again like the very idea is ridiculous, though the rumble in his voice is sort of the opposite of reassuring. He glares down at the cuff like it's personally offended him. “I can't break through that.”

 

“Good thing there's a key, then.” Stiles is taking deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. The fact that each one has him breathing in the scent of Derek's leather jacket and the warmth of his skin and the faint scent of the woods that always seems to cling to him isn't exactly helping with that, though. “Top desk drawer.” His voice is hoarse again, which could totally still be from shouting, and he'll be sticking to that theory, thank you very much. Derek's nostrils flare for a moment, but he rises without comment and crosses the room to paw through the indicated drawer.

 

“I'm pretty sure I'm going to regret asking this, but why did you leave the key in your desk?”

 

“Well it wasn't like I _planned_ to get stuck,” Stiles grouses. “I mean, I would've had plenty of time to get to it if I'd had to lock Scott up; I just wanted to make sure it was somewhere safe, in case he, y'know. Lunged at me or something. Did you find it? And have you seen Scott? I haven't heard from him all day.”

 

Derek turns around, jaw set in what's unmistakably annoyance. “He's at the house, along with everyone else. You're the only one I had to come and fetch. He said he tried calling you half an hour ago but you didn't answer.”

 

“Oh. Yeah, I sort of knocked my phone behind—wait, what do you mean, _fetch_? Did you guys need me for something? No one said. It's the full moon though, isn't that mostly, like.” He gestures expansively. “I dunno. Running around, wolfy stuff?”

 

“Yeah.” Derek is giving him that look again, the one that says that Stiles's idiocy is utterly incomprehensible. “It's pack.”

 

“Right. So.” Stiles swallows, forces a shrug. “Why do you need me there? I'm not pack.”

 

Derek snorts derisively. “Don't be ridiculous. And here.” He holds up the little silver key that will return Stiles's freedom, and Stiles is too busy letting his relief out in a spontaneous, wriggling little dance to bother questioning the rest of it.

 

“ _Yes_! Excellent! C'mon, c'mon, let's go.” Derek hunkers down again, and the scent of him hits Stiles full force before he can brace for it. He edges back farther against the wall as he fights the urge to do the exact opposite. “Here, just give it here, you probably can't get close enough to the mountain ash to undo it anyway, I can just—”

 

“I thought I told you to _calm down_ ,” Derek growls. “It's the full moon; don't you realize what that means?”

  
“Um, hello, my  _best friend_ is a werewolf, of  _course_ I know what it means.” Stiles swallows heavily. “Your, uh. Your control is sort of. Tenuous. But c'mon, man, I'm really not scared of you right now.”

 

“No, you're not. This is much worse.”

 

Derek's eyes drop to . . . to Stiles's lips, and oh, oh god,  _what_ ? He leans in, and for a dizzying, terrifying moment Stiles thinks he's going to—but Derek is angling his head, dipping down to bury his nose in Stile's neck, and that's . . . that's . . . well. He's nosing around, breathing in deep lungfuls of air, and it takes a moment for Stiles to realize that Derek is  _scenting_ him. Which probably shouldn't be as hot as Stiles thinks it is, but tell that to his dick, which is signaling its definite and enthusiastic approval. He can't help his moan when Derek's nose brushes against a particularly sensitive patch of skin, and there's a low growl before Stiles can feel long, sharper-than-human teeth fastening around his throat.

 

Okay,  _now_ he's scared.

 

“Um, Derek?” Stiles tries to move away, but those fangs just tighten and he goes immediately still again. “You're not . . . I thought you said you weren't going to eat me.”

 

“You need to get ahold of yourself,” Derek says, and at least he has to take his teeth away from Stiles's neck to do it. “If you don't, I _can't_.”

 

“Okay.” Stiles is trembling, in fear or excitement or some combination of the two. “And what happens if you don't?”

 

“If you're afraid, it'll make me want to chase you.” Derek's teeth scrape over Stiles's skin again, and this time there's no doubt about why he's shivering. “If you're aroused, it'll make me want to mate you.”

 

“M-mate me? No, but.” Stiles's eyes have gone wide. “Okay, this is the moon talking, right? It's working its crazy werewolf mojo on you, making you say things you don't mean. We just need to get you back to the rest of the pack, and you'll be just fine.”

 

“You are, without a doubt, the smartest idiot I've ever met.” Derek's tongue flicks out for a broad lick against the pulse point hammering away beneath Stiles's skin. “The moon doesn't make you want something.” His hand closes around the back of Stiles's neck, fingertips slipping beneath the collar of his shirt as he growls, “It just makes you _take it_.”

 

“Oh, god,” Stiles whimpers, but he's trying to tilt his head back, trying to give Derek better access, and the low, approving growl he gets in return makes his dick jump.

 

“We have to make this fast,” Derek pants, his free hand already moving down, palm grinding against Stiles's cock through his pants and drawing a broken, needy sound from him. “Or it won't just be this once. Mating after moonrise . . . I'll crave it every full moon. Wherever you are, I'll track you down and take you then and there. Make you beg to smell like me again.”

 

“Uh,” Stiles says eloquently, trying to thrust his hips up into Derek's touch. “How much time do we have?”

 

Derek leans back, hand still squeezing and stroking at Stiles's cock through the fabric. He closes his eyes, like he's focusing on some internal sense, and when he opens them again Stiles sees that they're almost completely red.

 

“About fifteen minutes.”

 

“ _Shit_ ,” Stiles breathes, “I could come five times by then.” He pauses. “Um, forget I said that,” he mutters, and reaches up to haul Derek's mouth down to his.

 

It's frantic after that; Stiles considers it a minor miracle that Derek manages to get their pants open without ripping them apart, but he does, and it's only seconds before a warm, strong hand—minus the claws, thank  _god—_ wraps around his cock. Stiles moans loudly into Derek's mouth, clutching at his shoulder to steady himself as he thrusts into it. Derek is growling and whimpering, actually  _whimpering_ as he reaches up, frantically seeking out Stiles's hand and tugging it down to where Derek has pulled himself out, as well. Blood is rushing loudly in Stiles's ears; he doesn't really know what he's doing, and he can't get a good angle with his other hand still shackled, but he tries to copy Derek's movements, each twist of his wrist and flick of his thumb that are quickly driving Stiles out of his goddamned mind. And as much as he wants what he said to be a joke, the knowledge that he's tied there, helpless against anything that Derek might want to do, is entirely too much for him to take. It's over too soon; he's spilling himself over Derek's hand, breaking their kiss to gasp and pant into his shoulder as he shudders through the pleasure spiraling out from the base of his spine. When he finally leans back he finds Derek watching him, and as Stiles belatedly starts moving his hand again he sees Derek lift the hand covered with the sticky mess of Stile's release and slowly, hungrily lick it clean. Stiles stares, wide-eyed, as Derek moans around his own fingers and shudders, spilling sticky and wet over Stiles's hand.

 

He doesn't know what to do after that, isn't quite up to following Derek's example, and is a little bit relieved when Derek rolls his eyes and grabs his hand to lick it thoroughly clean, as well.

 

“Okay. So.” Stiles takes a deep, shaky breath. “Think you can unlock this thing now?”

 

“Hmm?” Derek's eyes are hazy, and it takes him a moment to focus again. “Oh, right.” He reaches into his pocket and hands the key to Stiles, though he seems to regret having to release his hand to do so. “We should get going,” he says, tucking himself back into his pants and reaching forward to do the same for Stiles before he can stop him. “The pack's waiting.”

 

“Freaking werewolves,” Stiles mutters, rubbing at his wrist. “I should be spending the rest of the night delighting in the wonder of mutual orgasms, not babysitting a bunch of puppies.”

 

Derek snorts. “I'll make it up to you.”

 

“You'd better.” Stiles pokes him in the chest, inwardly thrilled when Derek _lets_ him. “Next time better be in an actual bed, and I expect full nudity, got it?”

 

“Sure thing. Will you let me tie you up again?”

 

“I . . .” Stiles loses steam, gapes for a moment before sighing in defeat. “Maybe.”

 

He thinks, as Derek helps him to his feet, that his smile can only be described as  _wolfish_ .

 

Yeah. Stiles is so completely screwed.

 

 


End file.
